Frontier Psychiatry
by ohmygodnotthecar
Summary: Sequel to 'A Short History of Contract Law'. Alive and out of hospital does not mean Sam is back to normal. An action-packed convalescence awaits the Winchesters as they cover the finer points of PTSD and staying alive.
1. Chapter 1

**Sequel to A Short History of Contract Law. Now massively AU. No Ruby, Sam went to Hell instead of Dean... you know, I think you'll just have to read that one first? It's short.**

**Disclaimer: I own only Cletus, and I don't particularly want to. Don't sue!**

**Frontier Psychiatry**

After leaving the hospital, Sam slept in the passenger seat, twitching occasionally. At the first gas station Dean stopped. Sam woke up – loudly – and proceeded to freak the fuck out.

"Ahhhggh!" And Sam pulled this giant fucker of a knife – Dean had no idea he even had it – all the while staring down this thirteen year old girl eating a pack of gummi worms with his Hannibal Lector-calibre death glare.

The situation was difficult to explain to the kid's dad. And the traffic cop. Even for a semi-professional silver-tongued explainer of strange shit (in the 'not getting arrested' category).

Driving on, Dean racked his brains for a quiet hideout. Sam's recovery seemed like it might be kinda – antisocial.

There was a cabin in the woods of the Appalachian mountains, owned by an old, ask-no-questions Libertarian redneck who sold ammo at cut rates for cash only. Dean handled booking in, which basically meant going to the guy's house (no phone, 'cause of the govmint bugs 'em), sipping some moonshine with him, and leaving a coupla hundred in unmarked bills.

"Well shee-ut, boh, less git movin'." Dean picked up accents like summer colds, imitating Cletus to perfection.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"Like what?"

"I nearly knifed that kid." Oh Jesus, here came the face. The guilty face. The Puppy-messed-the carpet-and-ate-your-leg face. Was that a break in Sam's voice?

"And you feel very bad about that. Ok, all done. The path's that way."

"I'm serious, Dean, I thought I was better but-"

"Outside world means new stuff, s'gonna trigger flashbacks, or whatever. Just like the hospital used to, but you got past that and you'll get past this too. You can't come out of the psych ward and expect everything to be instantly fine."

"Who are you trying to convince?" Sam said softly.

"Could we do this inside? There are bugs the size of a truck in these here woods and it's getting cold. Cabin's that way."

Sam tried to pick up one of the bags, nearly dislocating his shoulder.

"Did you pack... rocks? Is this some kind of training exercise?" He opened it. "Psychiatric Theory and Practice, A Field Guide to PTSD... you bought textbooks?"

"I borrowed textbooks. University library wasn't using them right then, so..."

"You stole them?" Sam picked up the other bag and walked slowly into the woods.

"To each according to his need. Read the Bible, Sammy." Dean assumed a sanctimonious expression. Sam snorted, but wasn't sidetracked.

"What are you going to do, hit me with them?"

"Like you always used to tell me, we need to do some research. Can't take you to a real doctor, so you get me." He grinned cockily, trying to convey confidence he didn't feel.

"Home psychiatry? This isn't like stitching up a gash in the head." Sam sounded incredulous.

"It can't make things any worse."

There was a long silence, filled only with the sound of boots tramping up the overgrown path.

"Not that you're that bad."

Silence, of a slightly decreased temperature.

"I mean, you've stopped zoning out, and you're sleeping a bit less, and you hardly ever get the shakes... Oh, look, it's the cabin." Dean sent up a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. Awkward.

SNSNSNSNSN

Sam still slept a lot, still woke up gasping for breath or yelling or painfully tense. When he was awake, he wandered in the woods, leaving the gun Dean gave him under a rock beside the cabin. He stopped carrying the knife too, but stashed weaponry all round the two-room building throughout the next week. The Winchester version of settling in, perhaps. He shared the thought with Dean, shared the laugh, and then spoiled it again.

"You got cut!?"

Dean followed Sam's gaze to the nick in his thumb. A little blood welled up at the knuckle, a bead of crimson against the tan.

"I was chopping onions-" His explanation died as Sam ran for the first aid kit. "What? It's nothing."

"Sure." Sam agreed distractedly, as he swaddled the thumb in enough gauze for a broken arm.

"Sam, you've gone a little wacky again."

"Oh. Right." He dropped Dean's hand, feeling himself colour with embarrassment. "Sorry."

The blood gets – got - everywhere, a drop quickly turning into a stream, a flood, drying to fill the air with scabby flakes that entered the lungs and choked you.

"Blood is bad."

"Yeah...?"

"It creeps into you and stops you breathing. Except here it doesn't."

"No. Here it doesn't do that." Sam looked up at Dean's face, afraid of what he might find there. Pity, mockery, revulsion for the puling, weak-minded idiot who'd replaced his brother. He saw nothing but Dean stating the obvious. _Here, you don't drown in other people's blood._

"This is hard." He sad quietly, almost unaware of having spoken, before pulling himself together. _Normal. You are on Earth. Act normally_. "So, what's for dinner?"

"Uh... Stir-fry. Sam, when-"

"Cool. I was getting sick of mac and cheese." He jogged off into the trees to calm down in private, leaving Dean sitting on a rock with an unanswered question.

SNSNSNSNSN

Dean watched Sam lope off, looking like the graduating class of West Point Academy. Happy Sam slouched. Brooding Sam hunched. Stressed Sam had parade ground military bearing that would make General MacArthur weep onto his pipe.

He went back to the cabin, head spinning. Sam just... one minute fine, and the next... _Choking on blood? What else?_...and then shutting down, pretending nothing had happened.

The stupid stoic thing. Dean had _invented_ the stoic thing and felt obscurely angry at having it used against him. He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the feeling of failure. He could do this. Forcing Sam into a heart-to-heart – and wasn't that a weird concept – couldn't be that hard. Except he didn't know if that was the right thing to do. Would reliving Hell clean out the wound, or just tear open the stitches?

_Can I even handle the truth about what he went through for me? Suck it up, Winchester, freaked out or not you help Sammy. Order number one._

Sam came in and fell straight onto the mat, sleeping the catatonic slumber of the exhausted.

_Okay, later then. But I will say something. I will._

SNSNSNSNSN

As night fell Bobby came in all guns blazing, or at least loaded, cocked and aimed. The quiet domestic scene in front of him was not what he had expected.

Sam was dozing on one of the sleeping mats that passed for beds, curled round a pillow. A mug of coffee cooled on the floor beside him. Dean was cooking a stir-fry on the hob in the corner, quietly, competently and barefoot.

When Bobby burst in, he only had a moment to see this. Sam jerked awake like a landed fish at the noise, and reached under the mat for a hunting knife in the same movement as rolling onto the floor and behind the bathroom door. Dean's stir-fry tipped onto the floor, knocked over by his elbow as he pulled a handgun from the small of his back and dropped onto one knee.

There was an exquisite moment of silence as everyone re-evaluated the situation.

"Bobby! Not that it's not great to see you, but maybe you could put the gun down."

"Dean. Likewise."

"Hey, Bobby."

"Sam. You're looking less dead that I expected."

"Can't keep a good man down."

"True, but I don't reckon you're a man or good. No offence."

_Did he just call Sam a girl? A **bad** girl? No, zombie. I think he meant zombie. _

_Did he just imply that I'm... Oh right, revenant._

_Did I just talk like Sam's an evil woman? Shit. Don't laugh, Singer. Undead. Not funny._

"He's legit, Bobby, swear to God. Could drink a little holy water if you have it."

"That would be right nice of you."

Holy water drunk by all, and theatrically used as a cologne by Dean, Bobby lowered the shotgun and commenced to tearing Dean a new one.

"What in blazes-" Sam pushed past him. "Sam, you ain't off the hook yet. Get back here. Either of you comes back from the dead, you call me!"

"I'm sorry Bobby, I gotta get some air."

"Let him go."

Sam stopped about twenty yards from the cabin and crouched down, head between his knees. Even in the twilight Bobby could see his shoulders heaving.

"What's that about?"

"You obviously have some questions."

"Which would be why I asked them. I was worried about you, Dean."

"I'm sorry, okay? I'll tell you everything. Take the load off. We got some beers."

"Don't try 'n butter me up with alcohol, Winchester. What did you do?"

"Hey, don't look at me. This is all on Sam."

"Who is outside-"

"-Having a panic attack. You spooked him. It happens."

Dean laid out the long and short of it, glancing out of the window every few seconds to where Sam stood. Bobby followed his gaze, seeing Sam staring unblinking at the rising moon, breathing ragged and shoulders rigid. When Dean ground to a halt, Bobby let it sink in, rolling it around in his head.

"Hell of a thing."

"Yep. You want some dinner? I make a mean macaroni cheese."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Look after him. Get him better. Move on." Dean cracked a brilliant, tarnished smile. "Easy as blinking."


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow. Bobby was going to be a cameo, but he's just shouldered on in here like he owns it and I can't say no to a man with a grasp of Aramaic. Not really got the hang of writing him yet, so your thoughts are welcome.**

**Chapter Two**

Sam came back in for dinner when Dean called, leaving the door open behind him. His eyes were starry with the chill night air, and they looked straight through Bobby for a couple of seconds before clicking back to his face.

"Sorry, Bobby. I guess Dean explained everything."

"Everything is a longer story than I reckon anyone knows. Not many people who can pull off an Orpheus, Sam. When you're crazy you're pretty smart about it."

"Thanks, I guess." Sam lowered himself onto the floor as Dean went to root through the cabin for an extra plate.

"What happened down there?"

Sam looked Bobby straight in the eye "Auditions were tough, but I got the lead role in _South Pacific_. Sold out show, great reviews – my Broadway dream come true."

Bobby snorted. "Keep your sass for your brother, kid."

"Honestly? I got no new scars, all my fingers and toes are still on. The rest isn't worth talking about."

"Hey, guys - I found a fork! And a bowl!" Dean said excitedly, head buried in his duffel bag.

"Clean?" Sam asked.

"We got water, don't we? I'll be a minute."

"Panic attacks?" Bobby asked quietly, once Dean was out. "Are you sure you don't need to talk?"

"What good does it do?" Sam laughed, light and hollow as an empty seashell. "I think I'd rather keep it to myself."

"Look, if it's 'cause you don't trust me, fine. I did just try to shoot you. But Dean has a right-"

"-not to hear what I saved him from. Not that. There's enough evil stories in the world, I don't need to bring in more." Resolution set Sam's features into polished rock. Bobby couldn't bring himself to ask again.

SNSNSNSNSNSN

"We don't have have a table, but Sam can grab a chair if you need one." Dean kicked him – subtly – in the back. Sam had a brief moment of catatonia, before remembering what his reaction was supposed to be.

"Ow. You get it, asshole."

"I ain't so old I can't sit on the ground, Dean." Bobby retorted, though his voice lacked bite.

Over slimy pasta spirals, they talked idly of hunts Bobby had wrapped up before the boys were born, of diners in California, Nevada and Wisconsin, of the effects of a lunar eclipse on werewolves, of heavy snow over the Great Lakes and heatstroke in Pueblo country. Sam yawned over his plate, pushing half-eaten food back and forth. The other two watched him covertly, startling a little when he unfolded upwards like a cheap magic trick. Watch as Sleepy Sammy becomes a Giant before your very eyes.

"I'm gonna hit the hay. If you want to talk me over in private, I won't hear you once you get past the dogs-head boulder." Sam said with suppressed violence.

"Sam-" Dean started to protest, not sure what he would say.

"Seriously. Get out those textbooks, get a second opinion. Stop watching me like I'm gonna sprout horns."

Bobby studied his almost empty beer bottle.

"That's not fair on us, Sam." Dean spoke straight from his gut.

Sam's mouth tightened to a thin line, trapping a thousand hurtful words. Bobby waited for the storm to break.

"Yeah. Not fair." Sam's voice was dry as the dust of the Valley of the Kings, ancient with unknown wrongs. A moment to refocus and he was back to sleepy again, smiling a bewildered little smile of apology. "Sorry. I know you're trying to... M'getting cranky in my old age."

"Old age my ass." Dean snorted. "Get some sleep, you teenage drama queen."

SNSNSNSNSNSN

Bobby pushed his cap back off his forehead, frown lines forming like furrows in the Iowa fields in spring.

"He ain't right. He ain't come back wrong either, just... off."

"Got a theory. Been doing some reading up." Dean grimaced. "These psych guys can't write worth a damn, but some of what he's doing looks familiar. The zoning out, thousand yard stare thing..." He flipped some pages.

"Psychic attack?"

"_Psychiatrist_ guys." Dean shot him a _what_ _the fuck are you smoking?_look. "Yeah, here it is. Learned helplessness. They had these rats, right, and they stuck 'em in boxes. Group A got a lever in the box, group B didn't. When they gave the rats electric shocks, group A could pull the lever and the shocks stopped. The group B rats started off running around and trying to climb the walls, but then they just. Stopped." He handed the book over. "Like they knew they couldn't do shit and gave up, just lay there."

"And you reckon Sam got himself into a box." Bobby said meditatively, looking at the photo of a rat curled up on a sawdust-covered floor.

Dean swallowed. He had a sudden mental image of Sam trapped in a cage, twitching with every shock, doing nothing.

"Yeah. I don't know... well, anything, really. He won't talk about it to me. He fought them off in Hell, I'm pretty sure. You should have heard him at the hospital, trying to exorcise the doctors. But maybe he couldn't keep fighting all the time."

Bobby patted Dean's shoulder, awkwardly offering comfort.

"Is there any chance it could be a spell? Goodbye present from the crossroads bitch?"

"Naw, from what Sam says that was part of the deal. No demonic hangovers. Hell, I almost wish it was something in our line of work. I might be able to kill it or exorcise it – I'd know where I stood. I haven't got a map for this." Dean gestured at the textbook.

"Bull. You're telling me a Winchester don't know the first thing about getting tortured? Do you even remember your life?"

"Yeah, okay, but I never had to _talk_ about it. I never had to ask how Sam was feeling, what did they do to you, did it hurt, did you scream-" He stopped, choking on the words, and turned away.

Wiped a hand down his face – his father's gesture, Bobby remembered – and got doggedly back on track.

"Anyway. I-"

"That's your problem, right there."

"What?"

"You can't break down. You _won't_ break down. And Sam's the same, you'd both get beaten to your knees rather than give an inch on doing _exactly_ what you want to do. What you think is the right thing to do."

"Yeah, and?"

"He doesn't want to tell you."

"So?"

"Sam doesn't think it's _right_ to tell you."

"Oh. Right_._" Dean picked up a stick and broke it methodically into pieces. "Stupid bastard."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

Bobby left them the next morning, stretching his joints with a popping sound and grumbling about the goddamn uncomfortable cabin floor.

"As much as I'd love to see how this plays out, I still got a job on. Hiker went missing somewhere out the, 'bout twenty miles east. If I hadn't stopped in with Cletus and heard you was up here I'd be there now."

"Maybe we could help." Sam said.

"No way." Dean got there first, Bobby's mouth already forming a refusal. "I mean, we'll be backup if you need a drive somewhere, but-"

"Right with ya, Dean. Sam, I'll see you. Take it easy."

"See you, Bobby." Dean said, watching Sam's face turn mutinous.

"I'm not stupid, Dean." he bitched, once Bobby had ambled on down the track.

"Really. Try not acting stupid. There's no way in H- Earth I'm going into a hunt with you as backup when you're schizing out every five seconds. You'd be dangerous to me and yourself, not to mention any civilians."

Inwardly Dean winced at the harsh words, waiting half-hopefully for a bitter reply. The old Sam could turn 'get me some coffee' into a knock-down drag-out fight across three states and God help him, Dean needed to fight something right now. Letting Bobby leave alone to hunt Christ-knows-what wasn't easy.

"Okay." Sam hung his head, shading his eyes beneath thick bangs. _He needs a haircut_ Dean thought absently, and then_ I'm turning into his fucking grandma, he can cut his own hair_.

"Sam-"

"I'm going for a walk."

SNSNSNSNSN

Sam kicked his way through the pine needles, feeling the nervous peace of not-carrying-weapons, a rare enough circumstance these past few years that it had its own emotional state. Dean would freak if he knew Sam went unarmed on his solo walks into the woods. It didn't really make sense, there were weapons all over the cabin and that was fine, it didn't worry him. Out on the paths, though, there might be people, brown-eyed girls and little kids eating gummi worms that looked like – things. Dean wasn't around to stop him if he forgot, so perhaps leaving the gun behind under that oh-so-convenient rock wasn't so bad.

There were birds in the trees. Sam watched a shaking branch, trying to catch a glimpse of the flash of dun-coloured wings. If he concentrated really hard and counted the seconds of flight and tried to pick where the bird would land, claws digging into the bark,-

- _Hecate held out a hand, long nails sharp around its dripping burden, and smiled sweetly. "If you've done the penance, you might as well enjoy the sin."_

Then maybe he wouldn't think of anything at all. _Please god, who I have never seen, let me think only of nothing at all._

As he walked back, he was watched by two sets of eyes, one pair at the cabin door and one pair on a bluff almost half a mile off. Dean's held worry. The Wendigo's held madness, and starvation.

The Wendigo ran its claws down through treebark and into the wood, the bright gouges a momentary satisfaction that dulled the fever of its brain. Its mind was a howling parliament of hunger and rage held together by chilly intelligence. That thin streak of reason said the last hiker, flesh tough and steeped in adrenaline, had been a mistake. Forest near the trail was fruitful hunting ground, but the search had grown too fast and too thick to risk those woods. A good hunter knows when to run clear and let the game settle down. Just like the elders taught all those years ago, before the bitter winter and the sweet, blood-soaked spring.

So now, the Wendigo had to go hungry in the quietest reaches of its territory, unless by some glorious chance it found in the deserted woods bounty such as this. Prey.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Sam dragged himself up the path toward the cabin with leaden feet. A flycatcher sang in the trees and fell abruptly silent as he passed. He waited absently for it to start up again, then stopped and listened closely to the absence of birdsong. He looked up, his eyes drawn unwillingly to four long parallel scratches above a branch way too thin to support a bear. It was about five seconds after he started running that his mind caught up with his feet and told him where he'd seen that mark before, and what had made it.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam barrelled out of the woods like all the hounds of hell were after him (again). Dean took one look and grabbed the shotgun, raising it to cover him.

"What?"

"Wendigo. We need to fortify." Dean slammed the door behind him and started piling up furniture against it.

"How close?"

They stared out of the cabin into the woods, lit from a cloudless noon sky. The quiet fooled neither of them, especially Sam. Even in bright sunshine, things came out of the woodwork to kill him, and that's how he knew he was special.

"No idea. I saw the tracks..." There was a thump as something heavy landed on the roof, followed by scrabbling.

"Shit, right, okay. Guns aren't worth a fuck, the machete is good, fire- we got that half-can paraffin for the stove an' another can – I'm on Molotovs. Got any protection symbols?" Dean jumped over to the low shelf next to the stove where they kept food and beer and started emptying cans, dumping the contents on the floor and replacing them with accelerant.

Sam racked his brain for protective symbols of Native American lore – all written in Dad's journal, and therefore safe in the trunk of the Impala two klicks down the path. Weapons yes, journal – much lighter and ten times more useful – no. Dean and his stupid textbooks and his dumb, Sam-based priorities.

"Dean, I ain't even got a pen." His voice cracked incredulously.

They'd pulled harder jobs than icing a Wendigo, but not without info, backup or even a cheap goddamn free-at the-gas-station disposable biro. Leaving aside that Sam felt pretty fucking far from okay, babbling voices competing in his head till they were cut through by an imperative _You will not panic because Dean sure as hell isn't doing this alone_. He forced himself to reason, to think out loud, and if he was shaking a little and if it was audible Dean had the good grace not to notice.

"It's daylight, fucker should be holed up till dark. Must be desperate."

"I ain't complaining. Could have jumped us in our sleep easy enough."

"Desperate's good. Means it'll be stupid. This whole cabin's mostly wood, right? I say we trap it in here and burn the cabin."

He looked across to see Dean, the pyro, grinning like Sam had just bought him a year's supply of ice cream-covered strippers.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

So the plan – formed over two action-packed minutes in a low-voiced hurry, reeking of the fuel splashed into every corner of the cabin– was for Winchester A to lure the Wendigo in through the door, slam it closed, and escape out the bathroom window, while Winchester B barricaded the door and two windows from the outside and maybe provided some covering fire while A hauled ass.

"Rock paper scissors?" Sam offered guilelessly, stowing a knife at his ankle for if (when) the plan went south and it came down to the ragged edge of weaponless struggling.

"Naw, you always cheat." Dean said, not meeting his eyes. "I'm luring." There was a hideous screech as the Wendigo's claws found the rusting guttering at the edge of the roof, followed by a muffled thud as it hit the ground. It would be at the door in seconds.

"No -"

"No time, Sam. Get into the bathroom and leave the door open a bit, the handle sticks."

"I'll see you outside." Sam said emphatically.

"Yeah, you will." Dean spared him one look, affectionate and true. "Take the guns and the Molotovs, keep the bitch busy while I'm running 'n don't hit me. Go!"

Sam had gotten better at taking orders somewhere down the line. He realised this climbing out of the bathroom window, hearing the sound of Dean yelling "Come get me!" to the centuries-old evil crossing the threshold. _Barricade door, fire through windows, Dean if you get 'creative' I'm gonna hurt you._

"Hey!" Dean barked, firing both shotgun barrels straight at the Wendigo towering above him. It screamed, a sound like the tearing metal of a three-car pile-up, and lunged for him.

"Okay, that worked." He dropped the gun and ran for the bathroom door, the few feet seeming like miles. He could feel rank breath on the back of his neck.

The Wendigo, starving and angry, slammed him into the wall with one blow of its arm.

As Dean crumpled to the ground Sam froze, and then began breaking down the makeshift barricade at the front door, yelling incoherently. He threw the door open and the Wendigo swung round to face him, cocking its head to one side in curiosity.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Get the _fuck_ away from him!"Sam screamed hoarsely. The machete in his hand felt way, way too small. The Wendigo approached , swaying sinuously like some parody of a catwalk model. Something like a smile crossed its face and even through his anger Sam could feel its amusement. A human with a sharpened bit of metal against those claws and those teeth – yeah, funny. _Come here and tell me how funny I am. Come on..._

Behind it, Dean stumbled into the bathroom, his scent masked by the stink of paraffin and his sounds by Sam. Head aching, he wrenched open the small bathroom window and fell out onto the grass. _Keep moving. Bottle._ He picked it up._ Lighter. Jesus, I hate concussions. _Sam was defending the doorway, long arms and blade a fragile barrier keeping the Wendigo penned in the cabin as Dean moved to his back.

Dean lit the Molotov cocktail with shaking hands, pulled Sam to one side and threw it straight at the Wendigo's head. Fire consumed the Wendigo's body as they staggered away from the door.

There was a long shriek, punctuated by a _whumpf _as the rest of the paraffin caught and the cabin began to burn.

At a safe distance the brothers lay on the ground and watched their short-term home go up in flames. Sam paled at the scent of burning Wendigo, rolled over and retched thin bile onto the grass.

"Should have brought marshmallows." Dean said weakly, voice roughened by smoke.

Sam spat and wiped his arm across his mouth, wincing at the sting of burns. "And graham crackers. Dude, we coulda made s'mores."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Dean surveyed the smouldering wreck of the building.

"Cletus is gonna be _pissed_. Ow, shit... head hurts" he explained to Sam.

"Your pupils are fine."

"Thanks for the sympathy. Some bastard people-eating thing smashes me up, and as long as my pupils are fine..." Dean's grousing had no bite to it, and tailed off as Sam stared through the remains of the cabin and the Wendigo.

"You know, I could be one of those. A Wendigo. They started out as humans, turned cannibal. The shaman would curse them and then they turned again..."

Dean didn't dare breathe, hoping for the next words, knowing they would hurt. Sam always did choose the weirdest times for confession – catch him half-concussed, strung out, bone-tired, all of the above, and he'd say anything.

"Please." He barely knew he'd spoken, the word just a whisper on the afternoon breeze. No way of knowing whether Sam heard.

"In Hell... there wasn't a lot to eat, and I..." Sam took a deep breath, pushing the words out like splinters of sound. "I was starving, and she would have died anyway. But that doesn't make any difference. She had brown eyes."

"Did you know her?"

"No. I just killed her. She was innocent and I snapped her neck and ate her flesh. And all I could feel was gratitude, that I got to live... We make our own hells and put each other in them. I was her torture, she was mine. That's what I dream about." He closed his eyes against the memory. "The light going out of her eyes and the demons laughing."

Dean thought about hell. The kind you put other people through. The kind of hell Sam was putting himself through every day.

"I don't... It'll get better, Sam. It's screwed up beyond belief, but you'll survive this and one day the dreams will fade."

"Should they? Do I deserve to forget about her, even a little? I have to live with it, not bury it, or I'm not human any more. I'm something less."

"It's done , Sam. There's no point in suffering over it. I hate to see you going through this, not getting any peace, any-" Dean searched for the right phrase.

"Redemption." Sam rolled out the word quietly, like holy writ.

Dean thought back to the time when Dad had traded with the demon, when he'd felt so raw and shamed by the enormity of that sacrifice he'd been ready to die. The idea of it had beaten him down and kept him fighting all at once, trying to repay an impossible debt.

"Yeah. You can't find it by feeling guilty for something you had no choice in. Redemption comes through living. You're alive, so live. Make every second count. That's how we honour the dead." His voice was sure. "How we thank them, and how we atone."

They were silent for some time after that. Smoke hung in the sunlit air and between the trees, dispersed slowly in curling, fading patterns by the light breeze. Eventually Sam levered himself onto his feet and offered a burnt-pink hand to Dean.

"Let's go. It's a long way to the car and the sun's going down."

"Sure." Dean took the offered hand and swung up.

"Thank you." For what, neither of them were entirely sure. Acceptance. Maybe even hope.

"De nada, little brother." They walked on. "Hey, it's been a while since I spoke Spanish."

"Dean, you don't speak Spanish. You make up words."

"Whatever. Wanna go south?"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

**Epilogue - A phone call.**

"Hey Bobby!"

"_Dean. Why're you so cheerful-sounding?"_

"We found out what was killing those hikers. A Wendigo came calling."

"_Don't tell me you boys got it."_

"Sure did. Lean mean huntin' machine, here."

"_Cocky is what you are. You two okay?"_

"Oddly enough, I think we are. Headed for New Mexico - let us know if you're gonna come down, chase chupacabra or anything."

"_Sam okay?"_

"Yeah. We – uh – talked. It's cool. Want me to steal you a sombrero?"

"_God no. Stay out of trouble."_

"That reminds me – could you say sorry to Cletus for me, and we'll pay him back?

"_Why?"_

"We may have, ah, burned down his cabin."

"_You what!"_

"Thanks a million, Bobby. Be seeing you."

"_Go to He-"_

-click-


End file.
